Page 44

B y the time I finally convinced Max to take me home on Sunday, after a rough night of trying to sleep in her guest room (she woke me up every hour, peering at me with a flashlight), Aunt Celia and Uncle Nathan were walking up the sidewalk.

"I tried to call you at Max's every hour to be sure you didn't fall into a coma and die like my third cousin twice removed Ingrid did after that frozen herring incident, but it kept ringing straight into voice mail, so Nathan said she'd probably turned the phone off. Max, not Ingrid," she said, practically yanking me out of the car in her haste to hug me and examine me for broken bones.

"Oooh, careful. My head is still aching, and I haven't taken anything for pain yet today," I said, trying not to whimper. Aunt Celia's fussing always put me back in little girl mode.

Next door, Emily came running out of her door. "Oh, my goodness! December, are you okay? Celia told me all about it! I've been so worried about you! I baked you a giant chocolate cake, and Rick is bringing our guest room bed over for you right now, so you don't have to sleep on the floor anymore."

Celia patted my arm. "I've made you your favorite pot roast and a pumpkin pie, dear," she soothed.

"With whipped cream?" I whimpered.

"I would never forget the whipped cream!"

Of course, with chocolate cake and beds and pot roast and pie and whipped cream, I could get into this whole pampering thing. I smiled as angelically as I could and tried to look fragile (difficult when you're nearly six feet tall).

"Okay," I said, making my voice as weak as I could. "I think I could eat something."

Uncle Nathan shot me a suspicious look, but I just blinked at him, sheer innocence written all over my soon-to-be-stuffed-with-pie face. He rolled his eyes.

Guess I don't do innocent face all that well . . .

S unday rushed by in a blur, with food, family, and friends, plus naps and wincing around, trying not to jar my head. But by around eight that evening, I was tired of feeling sorry for myself and decided to get some work done. I had two boxes of Faith Deaver's medical records in my living room that weren't going to read themselves.

Naturally, my cell phone rang the minute I'd arranged all the files on my new loaner bed (a full-size, even, not just a twin) exactly to my anal-retentive satisfaction.

The phone was still in the kitchen.

I contemplated ignoring it, and then I contemplated the problem of when I would remember to call to have a land line hooked up so I could have an actual phone. My phone kept ringing, despite my attempts to dither around so long the person calling would hang up. I sighed and heaved myself up to go get it, and stubbed my toe on the file box sitting right next to the bed.

"Ouch!" I said, and did a hopping step over to the kitchen and grabbed the phone.

UNKNOWN NUMBER.

I flipped the phone open anyway. "What? This better not be a sales call on Sunday night, because you'd better believe I know all about the Fair Debt Collection Practices Act," I threatened in my scariest voice.

Jake laughed.

"It freaks me out a little that I recognize your laughter, Brody," I muttered. "Makes me think you've been laughing at me a little too much."

"I just called to tell you that your car should be in your driveway by now," he said, in that low, silky voice that even static cell phone reception couldn't disguise. "And I only ever laugh near you, not at you."

"Right." I walked over to the window and, sure enough, the red convertible was in my driveway. "Oh, great. Magic tricks with cars, but where are the keys? Answer me that, Houdini?" I said, freaked all over again because I hadn't heard anybody drive up with the car.

"Celia figured you'd be napping, so I asked Wrench to be quiet and leave the keys with Emily," he said.

"Celia figured? What are you doing talking to my Aunt Celia? I mean, I appreciate all of your help and everything, but aren't you . . . getting a little too cozy with my family?" I moved away from the window, not sure how I felt about Jake being all buddy-buddy with Aunt Celia.

"I've got a lead on Gina," he said, trying to distract me.

It worked. "Where is she? Is she okay?"

There was a silence. "You know, I can't figure you out, Vaughn. Most people would ask about whether Gina had been behind the car vandalism first."

"I'm not sure how to respond to that. Are you accusing me of not being practical?"

"No," he said softly. "I'm accusing you of having a big heart."

"Oh. Well. Er, don't let it get around." I could feel my ears turning red.

"I'm sure it won't last. You are a lawyer, after all," he said.

"Nice. Very nice. Sneak in a compliment, then decimate them with an attack," I said. "Are you sure you aren't a lawyer?"

"Later, Vaughn. Try to stay out of trouble."

"I—"

Click.

I sighed. The man of mystery strikes again. What was it I'd ever thought was wrong with my dear ex-husband? I paused for a moment of wistful thinking. Old, reliable Mike .

Who wants to date your secretary.

The mere thought of Mike and Brenda sent me back to the refrigerator for my third slice of cake of the day. Chocolate is great for concussions, right? I carried my slab of cake and a glass of milk back to the bed with me and settled in for the night.

Those glamorous lawyers on TV got nothing' on me.

I woke up Monday morning and realized I was almost afraid to drive to work. The person (or persons, plural, I still had a hard time believing Gina Schiantelli was behind all of it, psycho nail file incident or no) who was stalking me had had the entire day Sunday to plot new tortures.

When I realized I was cowering in my bed, it ticked me off. There was no way I was going to let some low-rent thug get the better of me. Especially when I was freshly fueled with pot roast and chocolate cake.

After doing the shower/makeup/hair thing, I dressed in my second favorite red power suit – the one with the extra couple of inches in the waist for those special, post-cake binge days – and black pumps with the three-inch heels. I figured if I had to go down, I was at least going to look good on the way. Then I headed out the door to get my keys from Emily and get on with my life.

I stopped on the sidewalk outside of my house and looked around for nefarious types, not sure what a nefarious type would look like, but sure it would involve hairiness and missing teeth. Tattoos, probably.

Mr. Feldman from down the street was walking Gigi, his Pomeranian, but he didn't really qualify, since he was bald and had enormous dentures. I waved to him and waited till he shuffled on by, then I made as hideous a scowling face as I could, kind of "constipated pirate," and swept the street with my fearsome gaze.

"Watch out, stalker. I'm in the mood to take names and kick ass," I growled.

Then I felt stupid, because I'm so not a growler, but at least it made me laugh. It's hard for your teeth to chatter when you're laughing.

Not that I was scared or anything.

Much.

I was the first one at the office, and I walked from room to room, making sure nothing had been vandalized. Everything looked fine, so I brewed a pot of coffee and dove into the Deaver production. Now that we had the key, the documents were making sense. I wanted to establish at least a rough timeline by the end of the day of who first had notice when of the potential problem with the insulin. I also needed to call my experts, so I could understand the insulin production process. It was going to be an enormous undertaking, and the case might carry on for years.

I banished the queasy stomachache that started up at the thought. "A journey begins with the first step, and a document review begins with the first page, right?" I muttered, then clipped my hair back out of my face, pulled out a fresh legal pad, and got to work.

" A nybody home?" Mr. Ellison's voice broke into my concentration, and I looked up at the clock, blinking. It was nearly nine. Somehow, two hours and most of a cup of coffee had vanished. But I'd filled half of a legal pad with notes, and my timeline was coming along, so I didn't mind the interruption.

Plus, there was the matter of the name "Percival."

He ambled into my office, hands stuffed in the pockets of green and pink plaid pants, which threw me off. "Do you buy those pants on purpose to give Max fits?"

"What's wrong with my pants? These are the latest fashion!" he said, brows pulling together in the middle of his wrinkly forehead.

"In the land of dead golfers, maybe."

He ignored me. "Why shouldn't blondes get coffee breaks?"

"Oh, no. Definitely no blonde jokes. Mr. Ellison, I told you?—"

"Because it takes too long to retrain them!" He slapped the doorframe with his hand, clearly overcome with his own cleverness.

I contemplated the consequences if I hit him over the head — with the ten pounds of my Black's Law Dictionary — and buried the body.

"Who wants to dig a grave in this heat?" I asked, pushing myself up out of my chair to go find more coffee.

"What? What did you ask me? What about graves?"

"Never mind, Mr. Ell— . . . Percy. Never mind," I said, grinning as I slipped past him to the coffee room.

"You . . . I . . . Hey!" he shouted. "Never, ever call me that! I hate that name. Got beat up for two years after the kids at school found out about that name."

I rolled my eyes. "Or maybe it was just your charming personality," I said under my breath, not really sure that baiting my employee was appropriate, no matter how annoying he was.

"Okay, here's the deal," I said, swinging around to face him. "You quit calling me girlie, I quit calling you Percy. If not, I may have to let it drop in front of Mrs. Zivkovich . . ." I let my voice trail off, leaving him to imagine the humiliation.

All the blood drained out of his face, which was even scarier than it sounds. "You wouldn't."

"I would."

"You're just . . . you're . . . evil," he whispered hoarsely.

"Duh. I'm a lawyer."

He stomped off down the hall, shouting back over his shoulder. "Fine. Deal."

I laughed and shook my head. Negotiation at its finest. Next I'd be trying the Socratic method in the grocery store.

I walked out front, wondering where Max was. She was usually the first one in the office, with her unnatural morning-person personality. As I reached reception, she walked in the front door, talking on her cell phone. "I don't care what you have to do. Put out an APB on him or something. I want to know where that furniture is, and I want to know today."

I stared at her, wondering if I'd hired two color-blind people. The bright lime-green dress might have been fine by itself, but the matching lime-green heeled sandals and the complementary lime-green pillbox hat put the outfit at just a teensy bit over the top.

She listened, nodding for a few seconds, then sighed. "Well, do your best, please. Thank you. Yes, winning Miss Florida was one of my proudest moments. Thanks."

She clicked her phone shut, then caught sight of me. "I swear, some people. You'd think it was all fine and dandy that they have no earthly idea where on God's green earth your belongings are."

"Fine and dandy?"

"Oh, hush. I go all southern when I'm annoyed. And how are you, anyway?" She stopped and gave me the once-over with her eyes, probably scanning for further injuries.

"I'm fine. Nice dress, by the way. Is there a garden party scheduled today I didn't know about? Or did you have a sudden urge to look like a citrus fruit?"

She sniffed, then carefully unpinned her hat and placed it on the side of her desk. "I don't know what you're talking about, Miss Power Suit with the elastic waist."

"Hey, it's not elastic. It has a little . . . give, that's all," I protested. "And thanks for calling again about my furniture. I assume that's what that was about?"

She made a face. "Yes, but no luck. I've tried being annoyed, demanding, friendly, and commiserating. None of them work. Still no furniture. No driver."

"We're going to have to take some kind of legal action. This is ridiculous," I said.

"What kind of legal action? Don't you think it's a little early to sue?" she asked.

I threw my hands up in the air. "I don't know. Missing furniture is a little out of my area of expertise. Not that pretty much everything else isn't, too. Working at a big firm with divisions that handle everything is underrated, I think."

She shot a measuring glance my way. "Regretting starting your own practice already?"

I thought about it for a second, then touched my fingertips to the still-tender back of my head. "Nah. If I were going to have regrets, it would be over concussions, not over furniture."

Mr. Ellison walked into the room, carrying a cup of coffee. "Did you hear the one about the blonde who?—"

"Mr. Ellison!" I shouted, cutting him off. "No lawyer jokes AND no blonde jokes. Got it? Or do I have to use the 'P' word?"

He grumbled something under his breath, but he stopped. Then he looked at Max and did a double-take. "Great dress! It matches my pants."

Max moaned and started banging her head on the desk. Seemed like as good a time as any to make my escape.